


to break, blow, burn and make me new

by theviolonist



Category: American Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I just can't believe you said that in an interview," she mumbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to break, blow, burn and make me new

**Author's Note:**

> Highly inspired by these ladies' shenanigans these last few days, which means that they have been flirting like crazy, and flirting is an euphemism. Don't expect any kind of plot, there isn't one. You can expect, however, references to Dior commercials, Dakota Fanning, and the brief appearance of Chris Hemsworth. Thank you to ingeneva on LJ, who endured my whining and despaired with me fandom's lack of interest in ladies/Kstew and Charlize's gorgeousness/the female-ness of femslash (don't ask) and lots of other things, and also semi-betaed this. Enjoy this awkward and weird porn, with my compliments : )  
> Title from John Donne's Holy Sonnet XIV.

"What's got you flustered like that? Not that you don't look delicious," Charlize says, teeth peeking from under her pink lips. Kristen finds all the wild animals she used to look at on her children's books in her (panthers, tigers, lions). 

"Nothing," Kristen mumbles. Everyone always tells her to stop doing that, _speak correctly, young lady,_ but she kind of likes the way the words blur between her teeth, the way everyone has to really try to decipher her. Fuck them, anyway. 

They walk in silence for a few minutes – except there never is any silence with Charlize, between the clinking of her jewellery, the tap-tap of her sharp heels and the sound of her raucous, hoarse laughter. Kristen doesn't really mind. She likes silence for herself, but Charlize's existence is one of the rare few with which she can cohabit. _Down and dirty._ Yeah – that must be it. 

"I just can't believe that you said that in an interview," she mumbles. She laughs, red licking at her throat. She likes Charlize's boldness. "You're a rockstar."

Charlize lets out a surprised laugh. "That I am," she says, her eyes hooded. Kristen's thoughts jump back to Dakota – she has a type, she thinks before Charlize backs her into a trailer: ferocious and blonde. (But Dakota was eighteen with sharp nails and white, pointy teeth that left marks.)

"I thought you'd promised dinner," she says against Charlize's lips, but kisses back, of course. Their mouths slide against each other, Charlize's teeth scraping Kristen's bottom lip, tongue sharp and tasting of lipstick. 

"Nuh-huh," Charlize says, and then they're flush against each other, Kristen's back to the trailer, she doesn't even know whose, and Charlize's chest pressed to hers, nipples hard though the cloth. "I promised down and dirty." 

She pushes her thigh between Kristen's. Kristen lets herself be touched. She leans in to nip at Kristen's neck, the underside of her ear. "And that's what you're getting," she says, her voice low and golden. Kristen thrums like a guitar in the hands of a violinist. 

"Really?" Kristen asks, but she's a bit incoherent already. Women will be the death of her, she thinks sometimes, when Charlize embarrasses her in yet another interview and she feels heat staining her cheeks and Charlize's hard gaze on her, burning. (Sometimes it's like she's touching her – Kristen can feel the pale green of her pupils tracing paths on her thighs; she shivers, squirms.)

"Yeah," Charlize whispers. It means _shut up now_ ; Kristen gets the message. 

They're still kissing (one of Charlize's hands has migrated under Kristen's T-shirt and sometimes Kristen feels the side of her heel rubbing against her ankle – she doesn't try to decipher, moans, close-mouthed) when Chris walks by them. He stops, blue eyes amused. 

"Hello, ladies," he says. They stop. Kristen is acutely aware of her lips, dry and bitten, probably too red. She feels a bit like a deer in the headlights – but then, she always does. She always feels like she's being ambushed. 

Charlize smiles like the cat who got the canary. She's good for the role – she's a real hunter. Kristen always falls for hunters. She doesn't really mind (she doesn't wear lipstick, but they do, and she loves that, the grease sinking in the crevices of her lips, staying there until the end, burning, mixing with the old blood). 

"What do you want?" Charlize asks. She's got a hand on Kristen's hip, waiting. 

(Kristen likes Chris too, in this fuzzy, absent way she likes everyone she works with who isn't directly shitty with her, closer to indifference than any other feeling. It's more like fondness for Chris, though – he has something that she likes, his easiness, his australian calm, golden and peaceful.)

He shrugs, still smiling. "You might want to take this elsewhere," he says. "I don't think production would be very happy about it coming out." It isn't judgmental – he says it like it is, like he doesn't care about what they do, just wishes, a little distantly, that they would do what's best for everyone. _Hey – not my business_ , his gaze says, trying to appease them. 

(They're both wild, but it's not the same wildness – Kristen is the untamed cat that'll flee and slip back into the shadows as soon as you reach your hand, and Charlize is the graceful panther that'll attack at the first moment of inattention, purely for the fun of cruelty. _Better safe than sorry_ , she'd say, a wildfire dancing in her irises.)

"Fuck them," Kristen says, without bite. Charlize nods at Chris, and he walks away quietly, hands in his pockets. Charlize and Kristen walk to Charlize's trailer, entangled. 

"Fuck them," Kristen repeats under her breath, empty words, just for the sake of saying something, and latches onto Charlize's throat, the milky skin that's been immortalized in so many ways. It's weird to have seen all of her movies, to have watched that commercial ( _j'adore_ , sultry voice, gold, gold, it wasn't so long ago) over and over again, and maybe once masturbated to it, and to be there now, _with_ her. 

"Good-weird," Charlize asks without it being a question, as though she could read Kristen's thoughts. Kristen wouldn't put it past her. 

"Yeah," Kristen says, aimlessly, "yeah, yeah", and then they're tumbling through the door of Charlize's trailer, bumping against corners. Kristen can feel Charlize's smirk against her lips. She doesn't burn a lot, she thinks, but here it is – little crackling flames at the base of her stomach, lapping lower. 

"Better than ham," Charlize breathes, still smiling. How can she smile so much, Kristen asks herself – it must be so exhausting, and all this leather, man, winding around her thighs, how can she walk in that. They gave Kristen these burgundy heels to wear for the interview, and she can barely walk without stumbling. But she was never a good baby doll, Kristen. 

Charlize backs her into a table. Kristen thinks about the bruises she's going to have – on her hip, the small of her back, her neck, and the inside of her wrist, where Charlize pressed her fingers earlier, squeezing, fingernail digging next to the vein. 

Charlize is towering above her. She's wearing perfume, something deep and spicy that Kristen would never wear, maybe Chanel – it's heady, and it makes Kristen a little dizzy. She bites her lip. 

"That's too much for you?" Charlize says with a hint of laughter in her voice. It's not, and she knows it, but it's Charlize, she likes teasing. 

Kristen struggles in her grip, hips pushing against her thumbs. "Shut up," she says, and grips her neck, drags her down to kiss her again, deep.

They kiss for a few moments, and it's good – the room is hot around them, stuffy, low sunlight streaming through the half-closed blinds and heating the surface of the table. The leather of Charlize's pants is sticking to Kristen's thighs with sweat, and it isn't unpleasant but it's strange, it sticks and slides and makes strange noises, looks like asphalt on her long legs. 

Charlize sees her looking (she sees everything, all the time). "You're gonna take them off?" she asks, an eyebrow raised, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Kristen would be exhausted if she smiled half as much. She's already exhausted most of the time, needs to gorge herself with sleep and sun to function properly, but she cannot imagine living like Charlize, so _high_ and ferocious, with so much energy. Watching her half arouses Kristen and half tires her. 

"Yeah," Kristen mumbles, wishing herself to stop talking. She unbuttons the pants quickly, rolls them down Charlize's legs, kneeling. She undoes the buckles of her heels, tries to be precise but fumbles, finally gets them off when Charlize draws her feet out and sends them tumbling behind her. When Kristen looks up, she's biting her lip, chin tipped up, and she looks down with black bedroom eyes. 

"Kristen," she says – it floats in the air, pointless and airy. Kristen kisses the inside of her right thigh, chapped lips rough against the skin. Charlize is wearing lingerie, of course, black and lacy; it looks like she's still on the set of this commercial and Kristen thinks about her own boxers, shrugs internally. Who cares. 

Charlize urges her up, but Kristen takes her time, running her hands over the white skin of Charlize's thighs. She probably doesn't tan well, probably ends up red, like Kristen, except she'd never make the mistake. She's not the type to make mistakes. Charlize's shivers are like spasms, too strong, like everything she does. Kristen doesn't know what she feels for her, a mix of respect, adoration, lust and fond, genuine friendship, but she doesn't mind the blurriness of her feelings. She's always felt good in this adolescent haze. 

Charlize grips her forearm. Her hair is still up in her bun; Kristen has seen it enough to know it looks relaxed but is as tight as they come, never lets any bang fall on her forehead. Charlize is like that too, sharp and precise, always meaning what she says. It's a bit scary, in a good way – and Kristen likes scary things, always has. (Her father used to called her his 'little mystery'. He never really understood her, but she doesn't care, doesn't need people to understand most of the time. She doesn't mean to look whiny – it's just that it always felt normal to her: people don't understand each other. How would they? It's not that big of a deal.)

"Your hair," Kristen says, fingers brushing against the smooth nape of Charlize's neck. She doesn't undo it herself. 

"Okay," Charlize says, and she reaches for it, elbows bracketing Kristen's head. She undoes it cleanly, three seconds and her hair goes flowing on her shoulders, light golden waves over Kristen's hands. Kristen's fingers start carding through the strands automatically, and Charlize chuckles. The silence around them is deafening – Kristen hadn't noticed it until now. 

Charlize pushes Kristen's jacket off her shoulders and her shirt off her head. 

"You're not wearing a bra," she says playfully. Normally Kristen would feel naked, exposed, but this time she doesn't. She doesn't feel sexy either, because she never does, but she feels good. 

"Nah," she says, low in her throat, nipples rigid. The heat washes over her; she feels like it's seeping in her skin and curling in her stomach, wisps of it snaking around her bowels. Her skin is prickly, and she's sweating a little, not enough for it to be uncomfortable. 

"Turn around," Charlize says in her ear. She wasn't so close ten seconds ago – it's a surprise, her voice, hoarse and hot, slithering into the shell of Kristen's ear. 

Maybe it's the surprise that makes her turn around so quickly, narrow hips knocking against the table, and maybe it's something else, deeper, headier. Kristen doesn't really care. She doesn't care about a lot of things, and especially not about explaining, giving reasons and causes. She inhales sharply, and the smell of arousal is so strong and unexpected that it almost makes her choke. 

Charlize is probably three inches taller than her, but her head doesn't fit perfectly in the crook of Kristen's shoulder. It wouldn't be a good thing if it did, anyway – Kristen likes it this way, her chin hurting her, digging yet another bruise in the markable skin. 

She detaches her body from Kristen's for a second, and Kristen misses it immediately, the height of her pressing behind, hot and lean, crotch pushing unashamedly against Kristen's ass. Kristen hears the rustle of clothes, but she doesn't turn around, closes her eyes and tries to imagine Charlize, her breasts the blouse she was wearing only hinted at. Her bra probably matches her underwear because that's the kind of thing Charlize does and also because she, unlike Kristen, has a stylist whose advice she listens to, most of the time. 

Then she's back, plastering herself against Kristen's back, and Kristen tries to imagine for a second how they would look like to anyone else, Kristen with her bare breasts and ridiculous shorts, barefoot (she toed her heels off as soon as she could, and now they're probably somewhere under the table) and Charlize in her underwear, black lace and milky skin, beautiful, her fingers brushing against Kristen's side. 

Charlize's hands trail down her chest, massaging her breasts, and Kristen stifles a moan. They're a little cold, no rings, long nails (again, Dakota: but her nails were shorter and painted a garish pink that looked good on her – she had a stylist too.) Charlize laughs. She tweaks Kristen's nipple, and Kristen lets out a sharp little noise that makes her laugh harder, and then her fingers slide lower, hooking in the waistband of her shorts. 

"We don't really need this," she says, and her fingers snake inside to undo the button. Kristen bites down on her lip, her fingers curling on the table, and Charlize chuckles. "Okay," she says when the shorts are off, and then she slips two fingers inside Kristen's boxers, against her clit. "That feels good, yeah?" she asks, laughter creeping in her voice, mixing with the arousal. 

"Mm," Kristen groans. She tries not to give in to the urge to roll her hips but they do anyway, don't need her consent; she grinds down. 

Charlize's other hand curls around her side, squeezing the flesh. "Answer me, Kristen," she says, teasing and mischievous. Kristen can imagine her so clearly it almost hurts, her smile etched on the inside of her eyelids. 

"Fuck off," she says, biting down on a moan. 

Charlize chuckles. "I think you mean - -" she starts, but Kristen pushes back, ass pushing against Charlize's crotch, she can play dirty too, and Charlize's voice turns muffled and deep, "fuck me."

"Yeah," Kristen says. "Good idea." 

Charlize doesn't waste her time, slipping her fingers inside and rubbing the heel of her hand against Kristen's clit, her other hand back to massaging Kristen's breasts. Kristen hates the kittenish moans she makes, but Charlize makes her turn her head and kisses her, swallowing them all. Kristen will probably remember her kisses for a long time – the way it's filthy and real and adult, and how it feels like her, tastes like her, too. 

She comes quietly, like she always does, and she rides it with Charlize, the hot press of her still there against her back, Charlize's sharp chin digging deeper into her shoulder. Her hair sticks to her forehead and to her cheeks with sweat. Charlize whispers dirty nothings in her ear, but Kristen only hears white noise. It doesn't really matter – Charlize likes it enough for two. 

When Kristen falls back against the table, limp and boneless, it's easy to sink to her knees, and the rest is more or less natural, Charlize stepping back and falling onto the couch (Kristen is grateful for that – she wouldn't have liked doing it with Charlize standing up, and she suspects that Charlize knows that, respects it like she respects her). Her smile is full of cracks, but it's the good kind of cracks that make Kristen want to bite her neck until she comes undone. 

"My turn," she says, and Kristen nods, crawls closer on her knees and looks in awe as Charlize spreads her legs wide, her underwear visibly damp. 

Kristen presses her nose there, inhaling deeply through the cloth. Charlize slips a hand in her hair, says, "I was right, we're beautiful," and Kristen has to agree – they really are. She takes half a second to wish Charlize still had her heels on or that she had the patience to find them and slip them back on her feet, and then she's dragging Charlize's underwear down her thighs, smiling slightly at her sharp inhale. 

Charlize is a lot more vocal than Kristen, and it isn't really a surprise but it's nice anyway, hearing her say all sort of shit, curse and swear while Kristen's licking and sucking and pressing her tongue against her clit, inside, one hand keeping Charlize's thighs open and the other holding her hair back. She always wonders what she looked like after she's done that, but she isn't sure she will this time. 

Charlize is as honest about pleasure as she is about everything else, and when her thighs clench around Kristen's head, Kristen doesn't fight it, lets her shake and enjoys the feeling of the flesh quivering against her cheeks. 

"Fuck," Charlize breathes out, throwing her head back, and her thighs fall open again. Kristen rests her cheek against her thigh, smiles up at her. Charlize leans down to kiss her, misses her mouth and ends up somewhere between Kristen's nose and her forehead, the silky fabric of her bra brushing Kristen's shoulder. They laugh, a little breathlessly. 

"I'm starving," Charlize declares, falling back in the couch. 

"Yeah, me too," Kristen mumbles without moving. 

They stay like that for a few more moments, and Kristen is starting to fall into a welcome drowsiness, even though the carpet is hurting her ass, when Charlize says, "Come on, up," extracting herself from the couch. 

Kristen groans. "Come on," Charlize repeats, reaching a hand to tug her up.

"Only if there's food," Kristen says, smiling slightly. 

"There is," Charlize assures her. "A day of firsts," she says, smirk curling at the corner of her lips, and she pulls Kristen in to kiss her, the sun bouncing off the metallic sink and melting on their skin.


End file.
